


Derek Hale vs. The Cold

by canistakahari



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Sickfic, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolves aren't supposed to get sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Derek Hale vs. The Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starsandgraces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/gifts).



“No, seriously,” says Stiles, “there is a werewolf in my bed.”

“I know,” says Scott, his voice a bit tinny over the phone. “I put him there.”

“Why is there a werewolf in my bed?” demands Stiles. “Is he going to be a permanent fixture? Because I’m pretty sure my dad will notice, mostly because he’s Derek and he’s scary as fuck, but also because if I’m expected to feed him, the exponential increase in the grocery bill will probably raise suspicions.”

“Are you done?” asks Scott. He sounds amused. Stiles is not amused, and resents Scott for his amusement.

“I’m never done,” mutters Stiles, pinching his brow. “Are you coming to get him, or what?”

“Not yet,” says Scott. “I’m at Deaton’s right now, we’re cooking something up. Well, Deaton is. It smells like black liquorice and there’s a lot of smoke involved. Just watch him for, like, the rest of the afternoon, at the most. He’s probably just going to sleep.”

“Fine,” says Stiles. “But if I get eaten, then it’s on your head, buddy. I will come back and haunt your ass.”

“Understood,” says Scott. Then he hangs up, and Stiles slips his phone back into his pocket and spends a moment staring at the motionless lump buried under his duvet.

“Derek?” he asks tentatively. “Are you alive?”

When the duvet doesn’t stir, Stiles approaches cautiously. Maybe he should get a weapon. He has no idea whether a sick werewolf will be in full possession of his mental faculties. Which, okay, Stiles still can’t get over the idea that werewolves can even freakin’ get sick. They have a healing factor that makes them physically perfect and immune to illness and disease, so how the hell is this even a thing?

“So, what,” says Stiles dropping into his desk chair and wondering if Scott is just playing a joke on him and all that’s under the duvet is a pile of pillows. “Is it kennel cough? Because I’m pretty sure werewolves can’t get colds, or the flu, or even a paper cut.”

The lump shifts, and Stiles freezes. “…Derek?”

“Is it common practice in sickbed etiquette to talk at someone who’s sleeping just loud enough to annoy them awake?” Derek’s voice is like gravel put through a blender and muffled by the blankets pulled over his head. “Because if it is, congratulations, mission accomplished. I’m awake. Thank you for facilitating my return to the world of the righteously in pain.”

“Wow,” says Stiles. “The sarcasm metre just turned up to twelve. So, what’s the deal, grandmaster sass?”

“The deal is your voice sounds like knives,” grits out Derek. “Your presence is knives. My body is knives. Everything is—”

“—Knives, I get it, wow,” interrupts Stiles. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” groans Derek. He shifts a bit and the duvet falls away, revealing waxy-pale skin and lank hair. Derek is sans-gel, his hair draped over his forehead like a sad carpet. He looks so ridiculous Stiles finds himself feeling something that might be pity.

“But Deaton and Scott are working on it?”

Derek nods and peels open bruised eyelids. His pupils are huge in the dim light; the curtains had been pulled shut when Stiles got in.

“You want anything?” asks Stiles after an awkward moment of silence. “Soda, or, like, Gatorade or something?”

For a moment, Derek rustles around in the tangles of Stiles’s duvet, and when he settles he’s panting raggedly. “No,” he mumbles. “My stomach hurts.”

“You might be hungry,” points out Stiles, raising his eyebrows. “Wow, dude. You really don’t understand how bodies actually work, huh? This is kind of crazy. You never had stomach flu, or a cold, or pinkeye, or any of that?”

“Werewolf,” says Derek pointedly.

“Smartass,” retorts Stiles. “I don’t know why Scott dumped you here, though.”

Derek bares his teeth. “He thought I’d be able to get some sleep. Clearly he made a tactical error.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine. Jesus. I’m gonna make some food. Call me if you need me, grumpy pants.”

He’s in the middle of constructing a three-tiered sandwich using most of the cold cuts in the fridge when something hits the floor heavily right above his head. Stiles’s room is located directly above the kitchen. “Aw, man,” he sighs, putting down the jar of mayo. “You better not be breaking stuff up there!”

When he gets back upstairs, pushing open the door to his room, he sees that Derek has apparently decided to dramatically relocate from the bed to the floor in the form of a controlled fall. He’s taken the duvet and two of Stiles’s pillows with him.

“Whoa, dude,” says Stiles from the doorway. “Did you mean to do that?”

“Too—hot,” says Derek, and Stiles realises that his agonised flailing is actually an attempt to remove himself from the confines of his henley.

“I did not sign up for this,” mumbles Stiles. He walks over and grabs the hem of Derek’s shirt, trying to ignore how hot his skin is, slick and gleaming with sweat. Derek stills, glassy eyes rolling up to fix unerringly on Stiles’s face. “Stop staring at me and lift your arms up over your head. I’m trying to help you. You know, help? H-E-L-P?”

Derek fucking growls at him but he obeys, jerking his arms up so that Stiles can tug his shirt up over his head to free him from his 100% cotton prison.

Except now Stiles is left with a half-naked werewolf nesting in his room and he kind of hates the path his life has taken.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything?” asks Stiles, dropping the shirt into his laundry hamper.

Derek squirms around restlessly like he’s struggling with the concept of comfort, which probably means he’s given up on the bed entirely and is just making the floor his new home. He smacks one of the pillows with a fist and flops back, breathing raggedly through his nose. “What?”

“Anything,” repeats Stiles. “Do you want it?”

There’s a sound like Derek is grinding his teeth. Stiles imagines him chewing on his intangible need to ask for help. “Water?” he finally says, like he’s unsure if he should even be saying it. “Please?”

Stiles softens a little. Derek looks like it took pretty much everything out of him to even admit he’s thirsty. “I’ll be right back,” he says.

Back down in the kitchen, Stiles sighs and puts away his sandwich. He gets Gatorade out of the fridge and pours out a tall glass of ice water, and then brews a pot of tea, just in case. There’s chicken noodle soup in the cupboard, so Stiles heats that up, making some toast to go along with it.

When he finally goes up with a tray full of sick people food, Derek is asleep, chest rising and falling shallowly.

“Figures,” mumbles Stiles, putting everything down on the bedside table. “The soup’s going to get cold.”


End file.
